


Tight Jeans

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, BBW, Dangerous curves, F/M, Fat Ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 19:44:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15126584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: "These jeans make my ass look fat!"





	Tight Jeans

"These jeans make my ass look fat!"

Her voice came from somewhere behind me. I was standing in the aisle next  
to Women's Wear. The lady posing in front of the full-length mirror at  
the entrance to the dressing rooms seemed to be talking to herself. Other  
than me, there was no one in her immediate vicinity. And yes, the jeans  
were a bit tight on her. In fact, she was literally bursting out of  
them. Bottom-heavy, she was, and her ass would look fat under _any_  
circumstances, tight jeans or no. It didn't just _look_ fat, it  
_was_ fat -- fat and lush and pear-shaped. That ass, that huge  
beautiful ass, was the fulfillment of every erotic fantasy I had ever had.

She was looking back over her shoulder. She was looking _straight at_  
me. She had caught me staring! My guts turned to jelly and I started  
to turn away. Where was the nearest exit? But . . . was that a hint of  
a smile on her face? A mysterious smile. Yes. Making fun of me? Or . . .

She was beckoning toward me. _Me?_ I pointed at my chest and  
she nodded vigorously. Well, why the hell not? I slowly made my way  
toward her.

"You. Yes, _you_. I saw you looking at me. What's the matter,  
guy? Never seen a fat bottom before?"

"Well . . . none quite as nicely shaped as yours."

She began laughing, then slapped me on the back. It damn near knocked me  
over. She was several inches taller than I was, and had to outweigh me  
by easily a hundred pounds. Just that fat ass of hers alone must weigh  
nearly as much as I did. But I felt no pain. In fact, I was gawking in  
open admiration at her bouncing breasts as she laughed. Her blouse was  
a bit tight, too.

"So, what do you think? Should I buy the damn jeans?"

"Oh yes, definitely. They fit you like a . . . I mean, they show off  
your figure to perfection."

"You admire a classically voluptuous woman, do you? That being the case,  
I'm pleased to meet you. I'm Fiona."

She paid for the jeans, and we agreed to continue our discussion in a  
more congenial setting. For example, over dinner.

 

"Best meal I've had in ages." Well, not actually the best, but at least  
as good as I'd gotten in the fast food joints where I'd been eating all  
too often lately.

"I enjoy cooking for friends." She was humming under her breath as she  
cleared the table. "Would you like some dessert?"

I'd like that luscious pear-shaped ass for dessert. Now, how to phrase  
that delicately?

"Why thank you, Fiona. Do you have anything sweet?"

"Chocolate fudge and . . ."

"And?"

"And, well . . ." She blushed. "I know this is only our first date,  
but . . . "

"But?"

"But I just can't wait. I'm sorry, but I seem to have fallen in lust  
with you. Why don't we have _each other_ for dessert?"

"You just _had_ to pick the most expensive item on the menu,  
didn't you?"

 

That fat ass of hers looked even better in the flesh. Bare-naked flesh.  
It felt good, too. I couldn't keep my hands off it. Those round, juicy  
globes were a work of art.

She had what was once called an "hourglass" figure -- full breasts  
tapering down to a shockingly slim waist, then flaring out to wide,  
generously upholstered hips framing that glorious ass. Looking at her rear  
view in the flickering illumination of the bedside lamp, I could almost  
picture her as a mythical centaur, with a humanoid torso growing out of  
a massive equine rump. Those wonderfully sculpted haunches! Now she was  
down on hands and knees, and those magnificent globes, like twin moons,  
completely dominated the heavens. Later, hours later, as we lay in  
each other's arms, she told me she measured a full 56 inches at the hip,  
that is to say, around the ass.

That ass. I couldn't keep my hands off it. I savored the soft, cushy feel  
as I fondled it. The warm, fleshy resilience of her buttocks as I entered  
her from behind (which turned out to be her favorite position). The  
freshly powdered scent of wanton femininity tickling my nose when I rubbed  
my cheek against her plush bottom. I wanted it, all of it. I wanted to  
plumb its depths. I had a sudden raging desire to _fuck_ that ass.

In those early morning hours, as we lay entwined, I whispered into her ear  
the details my fascination with that magical, wondrous ass. I hinted at  
my dark hunger to explore its hidden richness, to insert myself into its  
mysterious interior. Her body spasmed in my arms. For a moment I thought  
I had offended her, that she was shaken by disgust and outrage. But she  
was only laughing softly. She kissed me moistly on the lips, then made  
a mock farting sound.

"My hot, passionate lover. I've opened my most private self, my private  
parts, my very _cunt_ to you. Do you think I'd deny you my  
_ass_? As it happens, having it up the ass is one of my . . .  
my secret masturbation fantasies. It's just that I've never found a man  
I've wanted to realize it with. Until now."

There just happened to be a tube of "XE-41 Industrial Strength  
Recreational Lubricant" in the top drawer of her dresser. Just behind  
several stacks of panties. Very curious. Could be she had already  
rehearsed her little fantasy, possibly with the active participation of  
a silicone sex toy or two . . .

She knew the moves all right. Her heavenly gate, the entrance to her ass,  
dimpled inward, then relaxed and dilated as I gently entered into her  
innermost mystery. She was hot and buttery-slick inside and I glided past  
her sphincter ring with no resistance. She groaned, then reached behind  
and pulled me farther into her. I began a slow pumping rhythm of long,  
deep strokes, and shortly afterwards felt the contractions rippling  
out from her depths that meant she was having her third orgasm of the  
night. She cried out softly and called my name.

My name? What name? What _was_ my name? Who was I? I couldn't  
seem to remember. My identity, my past existence prior to seeing her at  
the store . . . had flickered out, faded . . . didn't exist. In fact,  
I didn't exist . . . except as a figment of imagination, Fiona's  
imagination. As consciousness dimmed, the last thing I heard was:

"Yes, yes! My most successful creation -- a highly detailed demon  
lover, a phantom conjured out of a dream. You! You are a creation of my  
imagination. You don't actually exist in the flesh . . . yet.

"Somewhere, somewhere out there, perhaps among the readers of this very  
story, there is someone who can fill your role, someone who can love  
me as I'm truly meant to be loved. Someone who believes that there is a  
fat-assed Fiona out there waiting for him . . . somewhere. Someone whose  
belief is strong and unwavering and who will not despair and lose faith  
if at first he doesn't find his Fiona in Women's Wear. Someone who will  
continue searching -- searching until that day when he hears a voice  
ask whether the jeans make her ass look fat . . . "

The bedroom light comes on. There! On the far side of the bed. Is that a  
faint indentation, as if perhaps a man had slept there? Possibly. Over  
there, by the clothes closet, in front of the full-length mirror,  
a woman is struggling to pull a pair of too-tight jeans over her ripe  
posterior. She is crying softly and calling out a name.

Whose name? Yours.


End file.
